Sunday, 23 February 2014

Needing a miracle: letter to the hungry

I’m feeling a bit peckish.

In the cupboard there are no biscuits that
I like, because I don’t buy biscuits that I like, because then I would eat
them. I buy biscuits that the children like, because they eat biscuits, being
normal people with normal appetites and because I’m desperate that they don’t
develop the same sort of subtly distorted relationship with food that I have.

Food cannot be inherently ‘Good’ or ‘Bad’.
It’s food. Everything in moderation; except I’m not very good at moderation.
There’s no point in one biscuit.

The thing is, it’s not beyond the realms of
possibility that I might eat biscuits I don’t much like, just because they’re
biscuits, and they’re there. My levels of self control fluctuate between
negligible and non-existent.

Being hungry has very little to do with
it. I saw a scene in a film recently
when a man offers a huge box of doughnuts to a lady in an office. She declines, saying that she isn’t hungry.
Confused, the doughnut man asks what that
has to do with it?

And that’s the thing. I don’t have to be
hungry to say yes to a doughnut, or a scone, or a bit of flapjack. I just have
to be… needing one. To those who
don’t consider that nobody really needs
flapjack, I say I understand, I know what you mean and how, oh how I wish I saw
things that way.

I like eating, and I’m good at it. The
reason I’m overweight is that I ingest more calories than I expend, and it’s as
simple as that. I can’t argue that it isn’t. I don’t have anything wrong with
my ‘glands’, my genes seem to be predominantly thin ones and so I have no
excuse. My metabolism is slow because I don’t do very much to perk it up.

I like meals, and I don’t like getting out
of breath.

The only thing is, it isn’t as simple as all that. There are lots of layers in this
equation. The obvious ones are food
choices (I love all the hearty stuff like lasagne and pizza and pasta and
shepherd’s pie and biscuits) and portion size (what do you mean, I should have
less on my plate than my 6’4” husband has on his? That wouldn’t be fair.)
But there’s other stuff. More insidious stuff that I just do not know
how to deal with.

I eat when I’m happy: ‘ You
know what would make today absolutely perfect? Cake.’

I eat when I’m sad: ‘Cake
will cheer me up.’

I eat when I’m anxious:
‘I can’t be worrying about my
weight on top of everything else. I’m going to have some cake.’

I eat when I’m overwhelmed. ‘Don’t think about it. Have some cake.’

I eat when I’m celebrating: ‘Hooray!
Let’s have cake!’

I eat when I’m commiserating: ‘Oh no.
What a disappointment. Still, we have cake.’

I eat when I’m bored: ‘What
shall I do? I know, I think I’ve got some cake.’

I eat when I’m procrastinating: ‘I’ll get this done when I’ve had some
cake.’

I eat when I associate two unrelated
things: ‘Let’s watch a film. What is there to eat?’

I eat when I drink coffee (this is a killer
– I drink a lot of coffee) – but what’s
a cup of coffee without a biscuit?

And so on. Believe it or not, I’m not even
finished. Whatever you can find in the way of emotions, there’s a reason to
have something to eat.

People who don’t get this just say, ‘Well, don’t eat for those reasons. Cheer
yourself up with a bubble bath, or a massage or something instead’. I have a
couple of things to say about that.

One: Has anyone ever celebrated something with a bubble bath?

Two: Anyone like me who has longstanding
problems with overeating probably has a body to match, and the idea of someone
laying their hands on it and kneading all that flesh, no matter how therapeutic
it might be in principle, is a horror that might well drive them to cake.

So the cycle continues. The mirror and the
scales only pass on bad news which causes misery and embarrassment and worry,
and the overwhelming urge is to have something nice to eat to take away the
pain.

The diet can start tomorrow. Or next week.
Or after the cake is finished.

I have tried, or at least considered, every
diet known to man, and some that I made up myself. I understand people who eat
and then make themselves sick; it makes perfect sense to me. If I ‘d been able
to do it when I was fifteen, who knows what awful direction my life might have
taken.

I’ve been this way since I was very small –
or rather not small – young.

I remember at primary school being
terrified that the kids in my class would make the connection between a
fictional fat kid called HT and my (then) initials. They did.

I remember kids – and the PE teacher - at
senior school calling me names that hurt badly.

I remember being crushed when someone
realized that my name rhymed with ‘melon’.

I remember the lady fitting my wedding
dress urged me to try extra hard to get thin because ‘It’ll be worth it to feel beautiful on the day.’ I didn’t. I couldn’t….and I didn’t.

Fat isn't beautiful, is it?

I know all the tricks – the ones that work
and the ones that don’t. Pulling a cardigan tightly round in front to cover as
much as possible (not really; just makes you look defensive). Wearing dark
colours and long lines to elongate the body. Wearing multiple layers so people
might not be completely sure what shape you really are. Sitting with legs on
tiptoes so that thighs don’t spread out too much. Control pants (just push it all upwards).
Control shorts (just push it all downwards). Control polo-neck-to-knee
underwear (if only…) Never, ever, ever, sitting on anyone’s knee (though the
older I get the less this is an issue.)

And now I'm middle aged and it all gets a little more serious. It's not only about dress sizes and how I look in a swimsuit. It's about clogged arteries and joint pain and breathlessness; the ability to exercise if I wanted to. It's about running around with my children and walking round to sightsee on holiday. It's about getting to old age with enough energy to actually do some living.

Several times in my life I’ve tried hard to
get thin. I have never managed it, but I’ve lost a significant amount of weight
on three or four occasions, before putting it all back on again with a bit more
besides. Nothing seems to work for long.
Herculean efforts at self control eventually evaporate and the momentum
subsides, leaving me in front of the cake once more, a fork in my hand.

If I lose some weight, people tell me how
good I look (comparatively) and they’re being lovely, encouraging. But what my
distorted mind wonders is what they used to think when I was even bigger. Thin
equals approval, acceptability; fat equals disapproval, rejection.

I hate it. There aren’t words for exactly
how much I hate it. I hate that I have no control. I hate that my clothes are
getting bigger and bigger and that I acclimatize myself to shopping for a
larger and larger size each time I need something new. I hate that I hate
shopping.

I hate that I didn’t feel beautiful in my
wedding dress.

I hate that I look in the mirror with
disgust, and I hate that I am powerless to do anything about it.

It’s not just about eating.

It’s even less about being hungry.

Here’s where I’m at.

I’m 43 years old and I love Jesus Christ. I
try to live my life as He wants me to live it.
And this is not it.

He came to set me free, and I am not free.

He came to give me life in abundance, not
the half-life that I’m living.

He thinks that I am beautiful, but I think
He’s wrong.

He speaks only Truth, but I have believed lies.

I have believed that it’s all down to me.
That other people don’t have this problem, and so there’s something wrong with
me, because I emphatically do. I’ve believed that I’m fat and ugly and there’s nothing that
I can do to improve matters; I should just get used to it – be the jolly fat
lady, only I can’t be jolly.

I’ve believed that everyone sees me the way
I see me, and so everyone is looking
at me, assessing me, judging me. That I
am no good the way that I am; I am unacceptable. Strengths, gifts, achievements - I know that they're there, but they pale into insignificance next to this thing that I can't do. I believe that the only thing others see
is the fat, the lack of self-control, the self-indulgence, the weakness.

Sometimes I get a glimpse in my head that
those things are not true, but, oh, God, it’s been a long, long time believing
them and it’s going to take a miracle to think any differently.

So, I need a miracle.

I need the Almighty Creator who made me to
reach down and heal me. I need the God who loves me to breathe something new
into my lungs, into my mind. I need my heavenly Father to take away thirty five years of
defeat and self-doubt and bring health and restoration.

I know that He can do miracles. I do. But
for some reason, for all the things I’ve tried, I’ve never laid all this
ugliness in front of Him.

I don’t know why. It’s not as if it hasn’t
occurred to me before that He’s the only one who can help me, that God is my
last chance. Maybe deep down I’ve known that if asking Him for help ‘doesn’t
work’, then there’s no hope for me at all. As if Jesus were a
genie in a lamp, but He might not come out when I rub it.

He’s never let me down, not once. When I’ve
trusted Him with something, He’s always been there. Not always in the way I
wanted Him to be; I don’t for one minute expect that He’d arrange it for me to
wake up one moment a size twelve with no joint pain and a wardrobe full of
clothes that fit, though that’d be fine by me. I know that He works in a quite
different way and I know that His timing is perfect, even if I do want all this
sorted out yesterday.

I trusted Him with a long standing problem
with anxiety, and although I’m a work in progress, I am much less anxious.

I trusted Him with my tendency to lose my
temper with the children (especially at bathtime) and again, He is not done with me yet, but I am better than I was.

‘…in all these things we are more than
conquerors through Him who loved us.’Romans 8:37

You see?
He can do things that I can’t do.

He can.

So maybe He’s waiting for me to give it all
over to Him, not holding anything back. Not expecting Him to do all the work,
but by the same token, not trying to do it all myself. Just admitting that I
cannot do anything about this. I can’t. Nope.

Because here’s the thing. I need a
fundamental change in the way that I think, feel, handle emotions, and I cannot do that on my own. When I am
tired and lonely and worried and scared and all those other reasons I eat –
what I need is not cake, but Jesus.

‘Do not conform to the pattern of this
world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.’Romans 12:2

I’m looking for comfort, and there is none
to be had without Jesus.

Maybe I’m hungry for Jesus.

He is the only One who satisfies. He is the
only One who has what I need.

I give up.

I can’t do this any more.

Renew my mind, Lord Jesus, I like food, and
I don’t like exercise. I’m not healthy, and I’m far from happy.

I hate this. I’m ready to change whatever
needs changing to find the freedom and life that you promised me.

I need you, not cake.

I need you more than cake.

You are the God of hopeless cases and you
are the God who heals.

So, I’m going to get some exercise. I’m
going to try and say no to the biscuits more often than I say yes. I’m going to
try and live a life that doesn’t revolve around food. I don’t want to put
anything in your place but I know that I am not strong enough; I’ve proved it
over and over again... and yet:

‘I can do everything through Christ, who
gives me strength’.Philippians 4:13 (NLT)

8 comments:

Medication of feelings? I started to eat sweets (secretly) in my teens & it's only lately in the last few years it has clicked what it's all about. Then it was for sadness that then I didn't know what it was to make me feel happy (it did). An upbringing that taught me little about handling emotions happy or sad.Firstly, know you are loved. Then don't beat yourself up when it feels like the cake consumption is another 'failure' - re-wiring the brain takes a long time if this is what it is. Jesus knows too.Me, I'm still a very much work in progress in this area.Much love xx

This is so, so good. And yes, I know that frustration of knowing Jesus came to set me free, but knowing I'm not living in that freedom. I need one of those miracles too, and to remember I go in His strength, not mine. Thank you so much for this post and for linking up with us!

Girlfriend, there's not a person alive who can't echo this thought in some fashion. Substitute "perfect" for thin and you've named my bondage; the Lord's given me a lot of freedom, but it's a daily walk in His strength. Love you, friend.

About Me

I love Jesus, and I write. Quite often I do both at the same time.
If you know Myers Briggs, I'm INFJ, which means I'm intense and emotional and think far too much.
I live in Derbyshire, England, with my husband, two daughters and my mum.